


sinks and floats

by maleficently



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maleficently/pseuds/maleficently
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU; it's James, not Pinocchio or Snow, who travels with Emma to our world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sinks and floats

**Author's Note:**

> This has been done several times with Snow and Emma, always brilliantly and poignantly; I wanted to do it with James, since he has absolutely no relationship with Emma on the show and has the potential to be a great guy except the show is now writing him as a total doorknob. Consider this my attempt to remember why I liked him so much, last year.

  
  
He barely gets a chance to look at her before they start running.  
  
It’s not the kind of thought he should be having, bracing a baby in one arm and fighting off Regina’s men with a sword that keeps slipping in his grip--because of sweat?  Or because of blood?--but it’s the thought he’s left with; he just wants to stop, for a second, and look at her.    
  
His daughter.   _Their_ daughter.  
  
Their only hope.  
  
She’s so unbelievably small.  Nothing this small should be burdened with anything so great, and he will do whatever he can to keep her from feeling burdened--but they are running out of _time,_ and he has no idea what’s keeping Snow.    
  
It makes him lose focus for a second, which is enough for one of the helmed men to jab  home, straight into his chest; he stares at the tip of the sword as it slowly retreats and thinks, _I’m finished_.  
  
All of it has been for nothing.  
  
With one final, windmill-esque swing of a sword that once accidentally brought down a dragon, he cuts down the last of the soldiers and then falls to the ground, on his back.  The baby is crying, loud and harried-sounding sobs, like her lungs can’t cope with how scared she is at all.    
  
 _Emma,_ he thinks.  They are naming her Emma.  Already, she has a personality; she cries, which makes her like her uncle.  James had always been the crier, and he--  
  
 _He_ had been patient, willing to be a foot soldier; happy to wait for his turn.    
  
His daughter won’t have that luxury.  
  
A gray film slowly slithers down over his vision and the baby cries, cries loud enough to keep him conscious; cries so loudly that he turns his head away from her cries and sees the tree.  It’s _right_ there, and if Snow would just _get here_ , their plan would come to fruition.  Emma could have her chance; they could _all_ have a chance.  
  
In the distance, someone screams, which makes the baby cry harder.  He’d recognize that sound anywhere, that scream; it’s what Snow sounds like when plummeting from trees, when taking arrows in her shoulder, when crying for him to save himself.  It’s the only sound he’s ever feared hearing, and even as his vision gets dotted with stars and it starts to get harder to keep an arm wrapped around the baby-- _Emma_ \--he resists thinking the very worst.  
  
Still; he cannot afford to wait for his turn any longer.  
  
It’s slow-going, the way he has to drag himself forward with just one arm, legs trailing uselessly and getting no purchase on the floor.  The floor itself is a maze of bodies, and the effort it takes to heave himself over one is enough to make him think that he’s done for; that he waited too long, and Emma will be the one paying the price for his lassitude.  
  
He hears girlish, sadistic laughter, somewhere down the corridor.  At the sound of something so obviously female, the baby stops crying briefly.  
  
He _does_ look at her then, and little Emma stares back with half-lidded eyes, before crying softly again; almost questioningly this time.  
  
This _cannot_ be it for them, he thinks, and grits his teeth together and stretches his arm out, until he can grab the trunk of the tree and hoist himself towards it.  The arm that’s holding the baby is going limp, but not fast enough for him to lose his hold on Emma.  Her blanket starts to unravel, but he’s almost there, now; the blanket is going to have to stay, and Emma will just have to stay close to him to stay warm.  
  
Heartbeats, Snow said once.  Babies need heartbeats to feel comforted, and for now, his heart trudges on.  
  
With one more tug, so painful that he cries louder than the baby, they’re suddenly at the mouth of the tree, and being able to see the compact space inside of it, however blurry and shaky it looks, gives him the energy he needs to pull himself inside.    
  
“I’m not closing the door--unless--” he tells the baby, who makes a noise in return.  He’s glad that so far, she seems to understand him, even if he has no idea what he’s doing with a _daughter_.  
  
A girl was Snow’s dream, and he’ll do what he can to give Snow the chance to be with her girl, to _take_ his place; to live a life with Emma, one that will prepare her for battle, for survival, and for other things that he supposes girls need to be prepared for.  It’s so foolish, that he’s never really thought to ask; he wishes he had, now, but all he can think of is done-up hair and dresses, and the tiny form on his chest isn’t going to have an interest in those things anytime soon.  
  
He curls one finger into the eyehole in the door, and waits.  His eyes slip shut, and it’s not until the baby gurgles right into his ear that he even registers the sound of footsteps.  Time has become meaningless; the room is hazy and purple with some sort of smoke, settling in quickly, and he manages to sit up just enough until he can peer out the door.  
  
A floor-length black dress, and nails painted red as blood.  Heels, slow and deliberate.  The smell of rotting apples.  
  
He doesn’t give himself time to grieve; he will have twenty eight years to let his heart tear itself apart with thoughts about what might’ve happened to Snow, what Regina _did_ to get past her.  He’ll be using every waking moment of those years to ensure that Emma knows that her mother was a _wonderful_ person, someone who would have wanted them to do this.  
  
This, being...  
  
His finger tightens around the edge of the door, and then curls towards him.  
  
The baby pops a spit-bubble against his shoulder, finally calming down as his heart starts to slow, and he squeezes his eyes shut, wondering how they’ll know that it--  
  
…  
  
When he wakes up, he’s restrained.  
  
He’s _mummified,_ actually, and as he lifts up, panicky and abrupt, a slew of loud noises break out to his right.  There are devices there that he cannot place, but they are attached to him, and the first coherent thought he has is that they did not escape after all; that the curse triggered and the Evil Queen has trapped them in some sort of machine--it’s obviously getting sustenance from his body, and he--  
  
 _Where is the baby?_  
  
The machines beep even louder and a woman in a dress, wearing a small cap in a matching shade of blue, comes striding into the room.  “Sir, please try to relax--you’re going to--”  
  
“ _Sir_?” he says, before jerking on the strings and wires again.  “I demand that you  untie me at _once_ or I will have you disposed of quicker than you can say _Rumpelstiltskin_.”  
  
The woman in the dress stops in the middle of the room, her jaw slowly falling open, and he finally manages to pull the first of many strings out of his arm.  
  
“Where is my daughter?” he then demands, trying to sit upright, but it _hurts_ ; whatever sorcery he’s now being subject to, it has sapped him of all of his remaining strength and the room is spinning every time he so much as quickly moves his head.  
  
“Sir, she’s fine--she’s downstairs in NICU, being watched after by some of the other nurses.  Do you--remember what happened to you?” the lady asks him.  
  
He opens his mouth to start to explain that he knows _exactly_ what happened to him, but before he can, a man in a white overcoat walks into the room and says, “What do we have?”  
  
“Awake, but disoriented; I think he just mentioned _Rumpelstiltskin,_ ” the lady says, quietly but not so quiet that he can’t hear them.  
  
“What, the _fairy tale character_?” the doctor asks, before directing a concerned look at the bed.  “We’ll get psych up here for an eval, but check his stitches first, make sure he didn’t rupture anything.”  That’s followed by a hesitant few steps towards the bed, where the man slowly says, “Please try to calm down, sir.  You’re in a hospital, recovering from surgery.”  
  
“A … hospital,” James repeats, and gives up trying to escape, for the time being; without a sword, he’s not sure he could get past both the woman and the man with the clipboard, and even then, he has no idea where _nick you_ is.  He’ll need more time to plan, and until he has a plan, he’ll learn what he can about where he is.  It’s what Snow would’ve done.   “Of course I am.”  
  
“Right,” the man in the coat says, looking pleased, like he’s said the right thing.  “I’m Doctor Waterford.   A truck driver on his way to Boston found you by the side of the highway.  Do you have any recollection of what happened to you?  What caused your injuries?”  
  
James hesitates.  “I was--robbed,” he says, after a moment; where there is a highway, there must be highwaymen, after all.  
  
“We thought as much,” the doctor says, giving a sympathetic smile.  “No wallet, no ID, no keys--nothing, except a baby.  Your daughter?”  
  
“Yes,” James says, because no matter what lies he’s going to have to tell to earn his freedom, this one is a hell of a lot like the truth.  “My daughter.  They took everything except her.”  
  
“Do you know your name, son?” the doctor asks.  
  
He does.  Of _course_ he does.  The only name he cares for, the only one that’s been his in a long while now, is _Charming_ \--but that seems far too intimate to share, and the idea of continuing to pretend to be his brother is no more appealing.  
  
As a young boy, he’d read about legends of great men; men of ordinary backgrounds who managed great feats, and there had been one in particular that he--the smaller twin, the one less naturally adept with a sword, the one _not chosen_ \--had always thought the bravest of all.    
  
He’s going to need that bravery, now, and so he takes a deep breath--the weight of his own chest squeezing down on his lungs--and says, “It’s David.  My name is David.”  
  
…  
  
After a day, it becomes clear that he’s not part of a machine devised by the Evil Queen.  In fact, nobody in the entire hospital seems to be aware of the threat she poses, or what she’s _done_ , at all.    
  
It’s when he’s handed a rectangular, color-coded item of some kind and told that he should “watch some tee vee” that it starts to occur to him that he’s perhaps just no longer in the same _world_ that the Evil Queen is in.  
  
Or, perhaps, her curse is to banish them all to this strange land, with _tee vees_ and _tellyfones_ \--strange, rounded rectangles that the people put to their ears and use to communicate across seemingly infinite distance--and women who wear dresses and skirts so short that they’d be taken up for public indecency in the Enchanted Forest.  
  
The idea of his little girl growing up to be one of those skirt-wearing harlots is almost enough to make him sick, by the time they’ve brought him his dinner--potatoes are a welcome sight, but the odd shuddering tower of green … _something_ that they tell him is his dessert is another reminder that he is very far away from home, indeed--and then tell him that he’s healing nicely.  
  
A sicker thought is the idea that he will ever be _whole_ again.  
  
Somewhere, either in this world, or elsewhere--and not knowing has him wiping angrily at his eyes--his wife is possibly dead; possibly mortally wounded, like he had been.  Possibly just _alone_ , with no knowledge of the fact that he and Emma survived.  
  
It’s unbearable, and so he stares at the _tee vee_ and the bandages on his arms and the neat stitches on his chest, holding him together, and changes the _tee vee_ numbers in the hopes that one of them will explain _nick you_ to him.  
  
...  
  
Emma, too, is alone; at least for a short while.    
  
Men in uniforms of light and dark blue stop by to record his words about the robbery, and he describes his attackers as men wearing black masks, which seems to be exactly what these officers wish to hear, or at least _expect_ to hear.  They advise him to call his insurance company, whatever that might be.  Does he have any relatives that can be contacted, they too want to know.  
  
And he shakes his head, and just says, “My daughter; she’s all I have.  My wife... is no longer with us, and--”  
  
When his eyes well up, the officers exchange a look and then the female one--a brave woman, he thinks--puts a hand on his arm and says, “We’ll do everything we can to make sure you get justice, sir.”  
  
“Thank you,” he says, as it’s what everyone in this world says to everyone else, regardless of their station, and then watches as they go again.  The officers talk to the doctor in the hallway, disappear into the metal box with lighted numbers, and he goes back to staring at the _tee vee_ and the _soap opera_.  
  
Soap operas have very little to do with soap, as far as he can tell, nor are they operas;, but the story being told by the people inside of the black box is easy enough to follow, and makes him stop thinking about how helpless he is to get Emma and go.  There are stairs, in the hospital, but he doesn’t know where they are; the metal box seems like it could potentially be a trap, and without any weapons...  
  
Then, he hears it, and it’s just like Snow’s scream; he’d recognize it anywhere, instinctively.  His heart tugs towards it, and he sits forward--with slightly less pain, now that it’s been three days--and watches as a small tray on wheels is rolled into the room.    
  
Then, the blue-dressed nurse named Valerie picks Emma up and says, “Someone has been missing her daddy.”  
  
 _Daddy_ , he thinks, and has to bite his lip to not start crying.  
  
He’d known he was a father, of course, but the idea of being her _daddy_ , being all that that entails....  He doesn’t want to _be_ a father; he’s had one, and it’s never meant anything good for his life.    
  
But David Nolan--surnamed after one of the people in the _tee vee_ , but nobody seems to find that strange--is going to be Emma Nolan’s _daddy_ , and they’re going to be okay.  
  
For the first time in days, as Emma is settled back into his arms, he knows that they’re going to be fine, the two of them.  
  
~~~  
  
“How come you don’t have a mommy?” Timothy Berglund asks her, on the first day where it’s warm enough again for them to play outside during recess.  Sometimes, they play in the snow, but when it’s too windy or rains too hard, they stay inside.  Emma _hates_ being inside.  It’s better when they’re out here and she can be on the monkey bars.  
  
The question’s stupid.  She shrugs and then starts her climb.  “I have a dad.”  
  
“Yeah, but I have a daddy _and_ a mommy.  Do you have a second mommy, like Melissa?” Tim presses, before wiping his nose on his sleeve.  
  
That’s gross, Emma thinks; her dad taught her that a real gentle woman wipes her nose in a tissue.  She knows she’s going to be a real gentle woman because her dad’s been teaching her how to be gentle for a very long time now.  “Nuh uh.  But I don’t need a second mommy.  Or a first mommy.”  
  
“It’s weird,” Tim declares, and she feels her cheeks grow hot with anger.  
  
Anger’s bad, and not for gentle women, according to her dad; they don’t punch other kids, but Emma sometimes thinks that her dad wouldn’t mind a lot if she _did_ punch someone, because he has a punching bag and if punching is good enough for him, it’s good enough for her.  
  
“ _You’re_ weird,” she tells him, before dangling from the bars and slowly making her way across the sand, which they’ve decided this week is a pit full of alligators.  Like the ones in that story about Captain Hook that they’ve been reading, before bed.  She doesn’t want to lose a hand, so she bites her lip and hangs on tight.  
  
Tim has nothing else to say to her, and as she reaches the other side, Emma decides that she never really liked him anyway, so who _cares_ what he thinks?  
  
…  
  
Sometimes, she finds her dad staring out the window and crying.    
  
It’s normally when it’s winter, and there’s a lot of snow on the ground.  He doesn’t cry in a way that makes a lot of sound or anything; he just stands in the kitchen and looks out the door and then there’s tears on his face.  
  
“What’s wrong, Dad?” she asks him, for the first time, when she’s almost eight.  She’s wanted to for a long time now, but it seems like a question that comes with bad answers, maybe.  She wasn’t brave enough before, but she’s almost eight now and she can take it.  
  
He seems surprised to see her, but then he makes that face that he always makes when he sees her after she’s been at school for a while.  “ _Emma_.  Come here.”  
  
The kitchen floor tiles are pretty cold but she’s not on them for long; she gets lifted up and then settled on the corner of the kitchen sink, after he hugs her tightly and presses his stubbly face against hers.  It’s cold and wet, and now hers is too, she thinks, after letting her legs dangle and kick against the cupboard a few times.  
  
“You’re crying,” she points out to him.  
  
“I know,” he says, but he’s smiling as he says it.  “It’s okay.”  
  
“Only sad people cry, everyone knows that.  How come you’re sad, Dad?”  
  
He doesn’t answer right away, and then just presses a kiss to her forehead and says, “I just miss your mom, sometimes.”  
  
“I miss her too,” Emma says, and it feels like it’s a _wrong_ thing to say, except she whispers it and nobody can hear it except her dad, and that makes it okay.  They share everything with each other anyway.  This can be one more thing that’s just theirs.  “Dad, is she ever coming back?”  
  
“Not yet; not anytime soon,” Daddy says, looking out the window again.  “And she’s not coming back, kiddo.  We’re going to have to go look for her.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
His face tightens a little, and then he says, “I don’t know, Emma.  But we have a lot of time to find out.”  
  
“Maybe we should just get a boat and go everywhere, like Captain Hook,” she says, which is an _awesome_ idea; she grins a little, and then her dad grins back at her.  
  
“You like the sound of that?  Going adventuring together?”  
  
“You need to teach me how to fight alligators,” she tells him, sternly.  “I don’t want to lose my hand.”  
  
“I will, Emma.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
It gets her a nod, and then her dad tickles her in her ribs a little, and she ends up running around the house with him chasing her, telling her that he’s a dragon and he’s going to breathe fire on her if she doesn’t hide fast enough.  
  
Days when he’s not working on the farm are the best days.  She likes when she gets to see the animals, but nothing is better than having cocoa on the couch with him and reading stories.  It’s like there are _always_ more stories that they can read together, and the best part is that her dad always adds things that aren’t in the books.  
  
When she collapses on her bed, and begs for mercy, the book he pulls out is one that she’s had an eye on for as long as she can remember--and she’s almost eight years old now, so that’s a _long_ time--but that he’s never picked for them to read.  
  
Now, though, he holds it in his really big hands like it’s super important and says, “This story’s a little different from all the other ones, and you should read it carefully, Em.”  
  
“Why?  What’s it about?” Emma asks, because the front cover of the book doesn’t really make it clear; there’s just an apple on it, red and shiny, almost like it’s real.  
  
Her dad wraps an arm around her back and pulls her in close to his side, right where he has that scar from that time he got hurt when she was a baby, and she can hear his heart beat like pitter-pitter-pitter- before it finally goes patter, like he’s been running.  “It’s about... the finest woman in all the worlds.”  
  
“Wow,” Emma says, and then tentatively reaches for the book.  “What’s her name?”  
  
“Snow,” her dad breathes, before swallowing with a loud click, like the door just shut.  “Her name is Snow.”  
  
…  
  
He really should have read the book _before_ giving it to Emma, but the thing is, he never could bring himself to do it.  
  
Snow is a cavity in his chest that no doctors can sew shut; she’s everywhere.  There isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t talk to her, mostly inside of his own head, to ask if he’s doing _any_ of the right things.    
  
Emma wants her hair to be long so she can wear it in a long ponytail like her new best friend Jessica Smith does; is he right to let her grow it out?  Will he know what to do with it, if it’s long and curly the way her mother’s had been?  Will she ever outgrow wanting to wear jeans and t-shirts, and when she does, is he expected to go shopping _with_ her?  
  
“I wish we could afford a seamstress,” he tells Snow, out loud, when it’s dark and quiet in the house; he’s secured the perimeter and has tucked Emma in, and the blade under his bed is right in reach, in case anything happens.  “This would be so much easier if I could just foist it all off on a woman, but I guess we’ll make do.”  
  
Somewhere, Snow is rolling her eyes at him, telling him that if he can slay a dragon he can damn well dress their daughter, and he smiles a little before closing his eyes.    
  
One more day done.  That only leaves 7853 more, until Emma turns twenty-eight and they’re ready to take their lives back.  
  
“She wants to learn to sword fight,” he sighs, before falling asleep.  “I’m pretty sure she gets it from you; I just wanted to learn to guide the herd back home, at this age.”  
  
Somewhere, Snow looks proud and worried all at once, and he falls asleep thinking of how she _should_ be proud, and she definitely shouldn’t be worried.  
  
…  
  
Ten is a terrible year.  
  
Emma hates fencing lessons, because she has fencing lessons with privileged rich children from the better parts of Boston, and she herself lives out in the country with her _farmhand_ father, who can’t afford to buy her designer clothes or new shoes.  
  
All the spare money he has goes towards building up her skills; the ones she might need if they ever go back home, but _also_ the math tutor that will get her into AP classes, when the time comes.  
  
She comes home with a split lip after class one day, and a note from the fencing instructor that _violence will not be tolerated_ and can David please call to talk about the altercation, and so on and so forth.  
  
“What happened?” he asks, because Emma has this unerring interest in honesty and--truly, he doesn’t care about the other side of the story.   _Hers_ is what matters.  She’s _all_ that matters.  
  
“Nothing,” she mumbles, after a few moments.  She’s getting skinny and shooting up like a reed; she’s going to be nearly as tall as he is, at this rate, and he keeps having to take her shopping because nothing fits for more than three months.  
  
“ _Emma_ ,” he says, as stern as he ever gets with her, and she fidgets and then sullenly stares at the floor.  
  
Then, the story floods out all at once, her voice increasing in both pitch in volume, until she ends on, “So then Blake Hammond said that it’s no wonder my mom left because nobody wants to live with a farmer and be poor and have a stupid ugly daughter like me, and then I hit him with the back of my foil.”  
  
It takes David a few seconds, and then he says, “You did _what_?”  
  
Emma makes the movement again and then mumbles, “I didn’t really think about it.”  
  
It’s one of those moments where he _really_ wishes he could consult his wife for a second, because his own inclination is to just say _good on you, kid_ and leave it at that; of course, they don’t live in a world where hitting each other over matters of honor is acceptable, and so he tries for a stern look.  “You can’t just hit people when they insult you, Emma; you know that.”  
  
“I didn’t because of _me_ , I did because--” she starts, angry all over again, and then just deflates.  “Never mind.  I’m sorry.  I won’t do it again.”  
  
“Because they called us poor?  Because they talked about my job like it’s _less_ , somehow?” David tries anyway, and after a few seconds of hemming and hawing, he gets a grudging nod.  It has him exhaling slowly and then putting a hand on her shoulder.  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.  It’s an honest living; a _necessary_ one, even if it doesn’t pay all that well.”  
  
“I _know_ that,” Emma says, still red-hot, her little fists balling up.  “But they act like they’re better than us and they’re _not._ ”  
  
The way her chin lifts, when she catches his eye again, makes him think of her mother.  Snow, too, had a fire in her that burned brightest in the face of injustice, and it makes him think that perhaps it’s _time_.    
  
They go camping together all the time, and he’s taught her things about living in the woods that no ten year old in _this_ world could ever hope to know.  She’s taken it in stride, his knowledge and his lessons, and her love for the stories that he used to read to her and she then read to him still lingers strongly.  
  
Seeing her, with her split lip and her determined little face, David wonders if she’s old enough; if she can _take_ it, now, but if he waits much longer, she’s not going to want to believe in magic anymore.  Santa’s long gone from their Christmas celebrations, and the number of questions that Emma has been asking about why people go to church suggests that she’s not going to want to believe in religion either, so if he doesn’t get her believing in _them_ , soon, …  
  
Eighteen more years.  Those can be eighteen years where he solidifies her faith in her own purpose, or eighteen years in which she starts thinking that she’s _from_ here; that being a farmhand’s daughter is all she ever was, and that the stories he told her about her mother were just that: _stories_.  
  
“Do you want to know a secret?” he finally asks, when she warily looks at him again, her eyebrows contracting the way that Snow’s used to when she’d taken that awful potion that had made her forget about him.  
  
He doesn’t want to be forgotten again, and Emma is his only real chance of being remembered.  
  
“About what?” she asks, carefully.  
  
“It’s a big one--and you have to promise me, Emma, that you’ll _never_ bring this up with anyone else.  They’ll think you’re lying, or that your head’s not on straight--but I promise you that every word of what I’m about to tell you is the truth.”  
  
Mild caution has now turned into overt anxiety, and she shifts from one sneaker-clad foot to the other.  “Okay...”  
  
“I _am_ a farmer, and that absolutely does not make me less worthy than all those pharmacists and lawyers who have kids in your fencing classes,” he says, and it feels good to say it; to say it with the kind of conviction that this strange, secondary life has given him.  “But... I’m also a prince.”  
  
Emma blinks at him a few times and then says, “Dad, come on.”  
  
“I’m serious, Emma.  Serious as I ever have been,” he tells her, calmly, and watches as her eyes narrow slowly.  
  
“A prince of _what_?” she asks, which is better than the laughter he was expecting; but she’s ten and has been raised on a diet of legend and fairy tales and _stories_ , so her imagination is not nearly as closed off as his own was, when he first arrived in this world.  
  
“Well,” he says, before pulling out one of the kitchen chairs for her and gesturing for her to sit down on it, “the kingdom itself doesn’t have a name, but it stretches as far as the eye can see; your mother liked the refer to the whole of it as the Enchanted Forest, even though the actual Enchanted Forest was only a part of it.”  
  
Emma’s face shutters for a few seconds, and then she reaches for the back of the chair and slowly starts sliding into it.  “Daddy, that’s the forest in _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_.”  
  
She hasn’t called him _daddy_ in years, now, and he can’t help but smile at her.  “Yes.  It is.”  
  
“You _hate_ that story,” Emma says, pulling closer to the table.  “You threw the book across the room and then told me I shouldn’t throw things when I’m mad.”  
  
He almost laughs, when it’s clear that the hypocrisy of the gesture stuck with her more than the violent reaction he’d had to the book, and then just nods.  “I did.  It made me very angry, to see how the book had turned your mother into little more than a victim.  She’s so much more than that.”  
  
“My mother,” Emma repeats, and the way that the smallest glimmer of hope appears in  her eyes is enough to make him realize that no matter how she’ll react to this, in the long run, telling her was _right_.  She’s his daughter; his _ally_ ; the source of all of his hope, so why shouldn’t he return some to her?  “You mean--”  
  
“Yes,” he says, and then has to swallow around a lump that he’s carried with him for a decade.  “I mean.”  
  
She stares at his wedding ring with a sense of wonder, and then reaches for it carefully, like it might disintegrate or zap her if she actually makes contact.  “Daddy--that’s crazy.  It’s just a story,” she then says, almost daring him to disagree with her.  
  
“Stories have to come from _somewhere,_ don’t they?” he counters.  
  
She’s quiet for a few seconds, and then says, “If this is true--why are we here?  Why aren’t we in the Enchanted Forest?”  
  
“ _That_ is a very long chapter of the story as a whole,” he says, and then leans back in his chair.  “I’ve written it down; our actual history, the best I recall it all.  If you want--”  
  
She nods, fast, and then looks a little  more hesitant again, before laughing a little nervously.  “It’s probably a good story, I mean, if you’re a prince that makes me a princess, right?”  
  
He rolls her eyes.  “Don’t let it get to your head; even princesses have to play by the rules, and that means no more punching your classmates.  Okay?”  
  
She nods, a little distractedly--he’s going to have to stress this point again after some of the excitement has passed--and then says, “So--where’s this book?”  
  
“I’ll get it out after dinner,” he says, and then glances at the clock above the table.  “Want to help?”  
  
“Okay,” she says, and then spends the rest of the evening talking about how much she doesn’t like her math tutor and how she thinks she should be learning karate, because it’ll really help her with her balance.  
  
He almost thinks she’s forgotten about the book altogether, but there’s a thinly veiled hunger in her eyes when he places it on the coffee table in front of them, along with two mugs of cocoa.  
  
“ _Once Upon a Time_ ,” she reads, and then looks at him a little critically.  “ _Really_ , Dad?”  
  
She sounds so much like her mother that he knows he’s doing the right thing, just like that.  
  
“Yes.  Really,” he says, before nudging her in the thigh with his knee.  “Move over.”  
  
…  
  
It’s sad to think that she used to believe any of that crap even a _little_.  
  
All the fairy tale collections her dad’s ever bought her still line the bottom of her bookcase, and she keeps them there even though she resents the hell out of those stories because--well, throwing them out would depress the hell out of her dad, and she doesn’t want to _hurt_ him.  
  
Even if he _is_ a little bit crazy, he’s a really great dad; Jessica’s dad never shows up to any of her softball games, and Tim’s dad missed him getting his green belt, but her dad’s always been there.  No matter how much work he’s missing, or how far they have to drive, he’s always there.  
  
So what if sometimes he mutters about horses being more cooperative, and occasionally still forgets that the oven needs to be turned _off_ because it’s not a real fire?  
  
He’s always been there for her, and it’s because of him that she’s getting into a good high school and if she doesn’t mess that up, she’ll probably get a scholarship to a pretty good university, where she can play ball and maybe join the fencing team as well.  
  
The low curve she throws sails over the plate and her dad’s the first one up in the stands, and it’s a little embarrassing but also kind of nice, how involved he is.  
  
At least, until she heads back to the dugout and hears one of the team assistants talk about _how hot David Nolan_ is and how _the mother obviously isn’t in the picture_ and how she’s going to go for it.  Then, she just takes her glove off and tosses it onto her bag and glares for a few moments, because, _God_ , that’s her _dad_ , and he’s definitely not _hot_ or anything like that.  
  
Not that he’s ugly, but--  
  
“Nice work, Em,” Jessica says, sitting down next to her and wiggling out of her cleats.  “You’re so going to get a scholarship.  Maybe you’ll even go to the Olympics.”  
  
“Shut up,” Emma says, elbowing her best friend in the side.  “ _You’ll_ go to the Olympics.”  
  
“No, seriously, you’re so much better than the rest of us,” Jess says, serious now.  “Plus your dad will probably _drive_ you to the Olympics even if they’re in like, Korea.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it.  
  
“Billy Carter was asking about you, by the way.  At that party last night.”  
  
Emma looks over and raises her eyebrows.  “Billy Carter?  Seriously?”  
  
“Yeah.  He says you’re kind of hot for a chick who’s really into sports and hitting things.”  
  
Emma can’t help but make a face.  “Why are those _bad_ things?”  
  
“I don’t know, but I guess what matters is that he thinks you’re kind of hot,” Jess points out.  She pulls on a pair of flip flops and then says, “Maybe... you can ask your dad if you can come to the next party.  It’s at Alison Eckhart’s, and people won’t be drinking, probably.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” Emma says, but the conversation’s pretty much done already, because Jess should know better.  Her dad drives her everywhere, but not to parties; not really to _any_ place where he can’t keep an eye on her, unless it’s a sleepover at Jess’, but even then, sometimes she swears that he just parks outside all night and waits for her.  
  
It’s because the Evil Queen might send henchmen to kill her, of course, which isn’t exactly the kind of thing you can counter with _but I have a brown belt in karate_ like a normal person.  
  
Sometimes, she thinks that her dad will want to move _in with her_ when she goes to the dorms.  It’s only an upsetting thought about half the time, because... even if he is a little out there, and habitually has entire conversations about her out loud with a woman who clearly didn’t care about her enough to actually stick around, he’s also her best friend.  The idea of being away from him makes her feel like...  
  
Well, like they actually _are_ all alone in this world, the two of them.  
  
“I gotta go,” she says, holding her fist out for Jess to bump it, which she does, quickly; and then she slings her bag over her shoulder and heads out towards the fence, where her dad’s already waiting for her.  
  
“Great game, sport,” he tells her, and she rolls her eyes at him and then hands over her bag, because he has these weird ideas about being a real _man_ and they mostly involve carrying heavy things.  “What do you want to grab for dinner?”  
  
“Let’s cook something,” she says, after considering their options for a moment, after she’s slid into the cab of the truck.  “Like we used to, when I was younger.”  
  
The quiet joy on his face is so lame, but also kind of nice to see.  “All right.  What are you thinking?”  
  
“Maybe... we can try that pie thing again.  The one you really like.”  
  
He smiles a little, and then says, “It’s your mother’s favorite, actually.  I just like it because it reminds me of her.”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Emma says, because this doesn’t need to turn into another conversation about how her mother talks to birds and kicks ass with a bow and arrow.  
  
That’s just a story, and it’s not a story that she wants to waste her time on anymore, even if her dad doesn’t know how to let go of it at all.  
  
…  
  
He doesn’t know where he went wrong.  
  
At age ten, she almost believed him; by the time she was thirteen, he hesitated to even bring up Snow again, because she looked at him the way the doctors had those first days, before he’d learned to censor himself and keep the truth quietly locked away.  
  
He hasn’t tried to talk to her about it much, in the last four years; with a volatile teenager in the house, it’s been hard enough to keep the peace in _this_ part of their lives.  
  
It has been a _lonely_ seventeen years, with only a few moments where he’s actually felt like he could be himself; but when he thinks about Emma, and the bright future--however fake it is--that she’s facing, he’s not sure what it is that he should have done differently.  
  
Maybe she doesn’t believe, and maybe that means they’re all doomed, but _she’s_ not.  She’s strong, brave, courageous, dedicated, and so very smart.  
  
She’s all of those things, and he couldn’t be more proud of her; not even when she comes home, face streaked with tears and her hands clutching a thin white tube that he briefly thinks _might_ be an applicator tampon (and yeah, there’s a memory he doesn’t want to _ever_ relive), but then quickly realizes is something else altogether when she starts crying and says, “I’m so sorry.”  
  
…  
  
 _So am I, Snow_ , he thinks, because somehow, he’s let her down in all the ways that matter.  
  
…  
  
Eighteen is a perfectly normal age to have a baby back _home_ , where he and Snow had almost been overdue by the time they’d finally found enough time together to actually conceive, but things are very different here.  
  
Pregnancy isn’t something he knows an awful lot about, _still,_ but thanks to the internet and one of Emma’s softball coaches, he figures out what her options are pretty quickly.  She can either have the baby and keep the baby, or she can have the baby and give the baby up for adoption, or she can have an abortion.  
  
This is what they talk about over dinner, two days after she came home with the news; he says the word abortion like it’s a curse word, and she looks at him miserably before saying, “Do you _want me_ to have an abortion, Dad?”  
  
It shocks him, that she’s even asking, and he puts his fork back down.  “Emma, _no_.  This--it’s not my decision.  It isn’t _his_ decision either.”  
  
Fucking _Neal Cassidy._  Yeah, he’s twenty and he has a cool car and he listens to the right kind of music, he has a _band_ , Emma hasn’t shut up about the smirking little rat-faced bastard in well over six months now and she’s _sure_ she’s in love with him, which--  
  
God, how naive is he that he honestly didn’t think that they were having sex?  
  
He grimaces, which Emma catches, and her eyes water again.  “It’s not his _fault_.  I’m the one who should have--”  
  
“You _both_ should have,” David says, a little shortly.  “And don’t get me wrong, you’re grounded until you graduate _college,_ and if he gets any stupid ideas about doing the right thing--”  
  
“Jesus, Dad, I’m not _marrying him_ ,” Emma says, her fork falling to the ground.  “I’m _seventeen_.”  
  
“Oh, I see, so you’re old enough to have a _baby_ but not to get _married_.  Never mind me; I come from an archaic land where people aim for an extended courtship before marriage, and it definitely doesn’t involve doing whatever _you two_ were doing--”  
  
“Wait, you were a _virgin_ when you married Mom?” Emma asks, looking aghast.  “Oh my _God_ , were you secretly Amish or something?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” David spits out, before just staring at her; he knows he’s getting this all wrong, and that if Snow were here she’d be stepping in to take over, but all  he can think of is that his teenage daughter is having far too _much_ sex and judging him for not having _enough_ sex, and his face is slowly turning the color of Emma’s leather jacket.  “We were not _Amish_ , we were traditional, and if your mother was here--”  
  
Emma’s attitude drops away, just like that, and she shrinks back into her chair and wrings her hands together in her lap, princess-long hair curtaining her expression.  “Yeah.  I guess she’d be pretty ashamed of me, huh.”  
  
“Oh, Emma, that’s not what I _meant,”_ he says, trying not to sound exasperated.  He shifts forward until he can awkwardly reach for her hand, but hers are under the table and his are over, and she’s going to have to work with him.  “All I was going to say is that she would tell you that what _we_ did is none of your business, and that it’s more important that we focus on _you_ right now.”  
  
“Oh,” Emma says, sounding as small as she’d felt on the day he brought her here.  
  
“I’m doing this all wrong,” David sighs, after a moment.  “All I really want to say is that it’s your decision and I will support you no matter _what._ ”  
  
“I don’t know if I can have a kid, Dad,” Emma admits, voice watery all over again.  “I think about--everything I was going to do, next year, and I don’t know if I can do that and have a baby as well.”  
  
“Yeah.  That’s how I felt, when--when you were a baby.  But you learn.  Love really gets you about ninety percent of the way there, Emma, and for everything else, there’s soap operas.”  He smiles after a second and then adds, “And, I guess, the internet now.  But you’d be surprised how much I picked up from _General Hospital_.”  
  
She laughs, a little shakily, but it’s something.  Her hand runs under her nose, because the days where she remembered that real ladies used tissues are so far behind them now that he’s not even sure they have any in the house--and then looks at him nervously.   “What... what do you think Mom would want me to do?”  
  
“Whatever will make you happiest, Emma.   _Always_ ,” he says, without even hesitating for a second.  
  
…  
  
Eight and a half months later, her kid is with them for one afternoon, and then he’s off to live a life with a family who not only wants him, but also can _afford_ him.  
  
“I know you would’ve made it work,” Emma says, when she’s finally cried out a little, and when her dad’s gentle circles on her back start making her feel a little antsy.  “I know, Dad, but--I feel like you’ve given up absolutely everything for me and--”  
  
It sounds crazy, which is what stops her from saying it; but after a second her dad pulls back and looks at her.  “And what, Emma?”  
  
“And--ten years from now, we’re going on this insane adventure.  What would we do with a _child_?  I don’t know--”  
  
The tight, almost desperate way in which he hugs her makes her realize that it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t really believe what she’s saying; _he_ does, and the part where he’s given up everything for her isn’t a lie at all.  
  
…  
  
“I never should have doubted her,” he says, out loud, to the ceiling that he’s been married to for the last eighteen years.  “She’s _ours_.  Of course she believes; how could she not?”  
  
Somewhere in all the realms, Snow smiles and tells him that she loves him even though he is kind of an idiot, a lot of the time.  
  
“Yeah, but at least I know how to use the _internet,_ ” he counters.  “I bet you don’t... wherever you are.  I bet computers frustrate you as much as _cross-stitch_ has ever done, sweetheart.”  
  
A knock sounds on his door, before the Snow he imagines can glare at him, and he closes his eyes briefly.  “Come in.”  
  
Emma hovers in the doorway in a pair of sweatpants and one of her softball shirts, and then says, “Look--I know that the story--or the prophecy, sorry--I know it doesn’t start for another nine years or so, but--do you have _any_ idea where we’re supposed to go?”  
  
He clicks on his nightlight and runs his hands across his face, trying to straighten out his back.  Eighteen years have gone by quicker than he ever could’ve imagined, but the life of a livestock farmer is rougher than the life of a prince, and some mornings every single one of his bones ache with the idea of getting up again.  
  
“We arrived in Maine,” he then says.  “I’ve always thought it wasn’t an accident.”  
  
Emma frowns and then asks, “How come we didn’t stay there?”  
  
“I had a few too many issues adjusting to life here for that to be safe.  We left once I’d figured out how to dress us, how to--get a job, how to pay rent.  All things I’d never had to do before.”  
  
There’s a sort of wonder on her face, just for a second, and then she just licks her lips and says, “Maine, huh.”  
  
“Yeah.  Off the highway to Boston.  I don’t know anything more specific than that, but--”  
  
“No, that’s... that’s not a terrible idea,” Emma says, slowly, and then leans her head against the doorframe.  “I think I’ve decided, by the way.”  
  
“On a major?”  
  
“Yeah,” she says, and then smiles a little shyly.  “Psychology.   _Not_ the therapy kind.  The profiling kind.  You know, to see if criminals are lying.  I’m pretty naturally good at that--”  
  
“Yes, you are,” David agrees, and then frowns at her lightly.  “Have you ever--tried that on me?  Your superpower, I mean?”  
  
Her smile falls, a little, but all she says is, “Everything you’ve told me is true, as far as you know, Dad.”  
  
“Okay,” he says, and offers her a small smile in kind, because it’s obvious that she’s _trying_ , even if she still can’t really wrap her head around it--not the way she did when she was ten, and when having a beautiful, fiesty princess as a mother seemed like it had come to her straight from a dream.  
  
She’s a little too chipped for those kinds of dreams to feel in reach now, and he knows that that’s just _life_ ; that she’s never seen what happens when true love works out, and that all of her doubt will disappear once she’s witnessed it.  
  
“Sleep tight, Emma.”  
  
“You too,” she says, closing the door gently behind her, like he’s the child and she’s the one in the driver’s seat.  
  
 _Well, she will be, fairly soon,_ Snow reminds him, and he turns off his light and tries to remember that he’s done the best he could, to prepare her.  
  
…  
  
The FBI isn’t exactly knocking on her door, and her degree turns out to be useful in a lot of other ways that she’d never considered; by the time she’s twenty-five, she’s pretty well established on the bounty hunting circuit, because she gets more out of witnesses than anyone else working in Boston does.  
  
Some of her less friendly co-workers nastily pin all of that on her gender--like her boobs have lie detectors built into them, or something--but everyone else just leaves her alone and lets her get on with the work.  
  
It pays well, given that it’s a little risky sometimes, and she finally feels like her dad can start living a slightly more normal life; not that he really seems to want it, because he just spends the days he can now afford to take off doing research.  Research mostly involves reading all the versions of _Snow White_ he can get his hands on, because they need to know what they’re going to be dealing with.  
  
“Your mother has known the Queen for most of her life,” he tells her, over pancakes, as she squirts some syrup onto his plate and then her own.  “But I only had dealings with her sporadically.  Her … appetite for destruction never quite extended to me, and even when I was her captive...”  
  
He talks about all of this so naturally that she has to keep reminding herself that there probably isn’t anything for them to find in Maine; that they’ll end up taking a one-week trip three years from now that’ll crush his spirit altogether, but God, maybe he’ll finally move _on_ , then.    
  
The days of finding it creepy that her father’s a handsome man are long gone, and now she just looks at his wedding ring and feels a sense of _pity_ , even though he doesn’t pity himself.  Whatever his feelings for her mother are, whoever she actually _is_ , they have sustained him for her entire life.  
  
Thinking back on Neal Cassidy, who’d ended up in prison two months before she’d given birth after stealing some watches to help pay for the costs associated with pregnancy, she realizes that she has no idea what it’s like to feel that way at all.  
  
“... and of course, I don’t _think_ she has magic here, because there is no magic in this realm at all, but--well, maybe all we’ll find in Maine is a portal to another world where she does,” her father says, somberly.  He scratches at the graying hair at his temple, briefly, and then somberly says, “I don’t honestly know.  Your mother was always the brains behind our various schemes.  I was just the muscle.”  
  
Emma thinks of the comforting sound of his fists pounding away on the punching bag and then reaches across the table, covering his work-roughened hand with hers.  “Hey, I went to college _and_ I have a mean right hook, so--maybe I’m just a perfect mix of both of you, huh?”  
  
It’s always the little things that bring him back to the present with her, and he folds her hand in his own, holding it safe and close, the way he’s held all of her as long as she can remember.  
  
“I like to think you are,” he says, and then picks up his fork and winks at her. “Thanks for breakfast, money-maker.”  
  
“ _Dad_ ,” she says, but then laughs a little anyway.  
  
…  
  
All these years of scouring maps, storybooks, websites and his own mind, and it’s his daughter who calls _him_ , at three in the morning and a day out from her twenty-eighth birthday.  
  
“Hey, Dad.  I’m chasing down a mark who’s left a trail halfway across the east coast and uh, my car broke down in Maine …”  
  
The skin at the back of his neck prickles, tight, the way it frequently had when his life had involved dramatic fleeing and vanquishing sirens and kissing with all the love in the world, regularly.  “ _Where_ in Maine, Emma?”  
  
“Well, that’s the thing,” Emma says, before laughing a little sheepishly.  “It’s being towed to a town called Storybrooke.”  
  
“Storybrooke,” David repeats, launching himself out of bed and heading for the map above the kitchen table; it’s a blow-up of the entire state, with every possible location he could think of thumb-tacked and strung together.  “That’s--I don’t remember seeing that.  Where is it?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s... not really on any map.  The mechanic who just came to get my car--his name is Michael, and he says that I’m the first person who’s been to town in a very long time.”  
  
His breath stops cold in his lungs, and then he asks, “ _How_ long?”  
  
Emma lets out more nervous laughter and then says, “Twenty eight years, maybe.  He couldn’t really remember; said it was all a little bit... hazy.”  
  
The last time his heart beat this frantically, he’d been crawling into a hollowed-out tree with a newborn baby, thinking he wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.  His mouth is as dry as his hands are clammy, and for a second he thinks that the cruellest of all jokes is about to happen; his body can’t withstand the terrifying euphoria coursing through it right now.  
  
Then, he hears Emma say, “Dad--I don’t want to freak you out any more or anything, but _I’m_ freaking out a little now, and--can you maybe... come and get me?”  
  
“Yes,” David says.  “What’s the last exit you passed?”  
  
“I don’t know, but my phone can tell you where I am--hang on, let me just--there.  That should show up on yours, if you click on the map thingie--that’s the one on the top right, okay?  And then--”  
  
“I _know_ , Emma,” he says, a little impatiently, and then pulls his phone away from his ear and looks at the location she’s sent him.  
  
It’s nowhere.  
  
It’s _exactly_ where he’s supposed to be.  
  
“Don’t move.  Just--stay where you are,” he says, putting the phone back to his ear.  “I’ll find you.”  
  
…  
  
To say that she’s spooked is an understatement.  
  
Storybrooke, on the surface of it, is a pleasant enough town, because everyone that’s helped her over to the bed and breakfast--an innocuous barn-like place called _Granny’s_ \--has been really friendly, but the people...  
  
They’re all moving around like they’re dazed.  The way her father does, sometimes, when he’s faced with having to program the TiVo on his own, or when he forgets that the car needs a regular oil change and not just some hay to chew on.  
  
The thing is, her dad’s _aware_ of why it is that these things confound him; the people she meets here, including a waitress named Ruby and Granny herself, just seem astounded by the fact that she _exists_ and is physically present in their town.  
  
“We don’t get many visitors,” Ruby confides in her, when she’s directed to the local diner-- _also_ Granny’s--for one of the best breakfasts she’s had in her _life_.  “You’re kind of a big deal right now; any minute now, I bet the mayor herself will show up to talk to you.”  
  
Emma slowly lowers her coffee back to the counter and then carefully asks, “The mayor?”  
  
“Oh, yeah.  Mayor Mills--she’s kind of a micro-manager.  Not much gets by her.”  
  
Emma nods, mindful of her dad’s instructions not to _say_ anything, and then looks at a copy of the local paper.  “Mind if I--”  
  
“No, by all means, but I’m warning you; nothing ever happens in Storybrooke, so it’s going to be a pretty boring read unless you know people in town.”  
  
 _I might,_ Emma thinks, before flipping open the paper and slowly browsing through it.  
  
….  
  
He’s barely past the town sign when his phone rings, and he almost off-roads.  
  
“Emma, are you--” he asks, pressing the phone against his shoulder and returning his hand to the steering wheel.  The truck isn’t cut out for long, frantic trips like this anymore; God, _he_ isn’t, either.  He’s an old man now; fifty six years old and accompanying his daughter on a wild goose chase that he’s been having to force himself to believe in.  
  
Snow hasn’t aged a day, in his mind, and if what few things Emma has been texting him are right, she might not have aged a day _at all_.  She’ll be beautiful; radiant and young, able to have more children, and he’s just the tired old man who’s already raised the only one they’re likely to have together.  
  
He _knows_ their love can withstand this, that back home they’ve been through far worse than this separation, but this world isn’t like that world; he’s seen more casual ugliness and less hope in the last twenty eight years than he ever thought possible.  It’s never made him stop believing, but maybe to _truly_ believe, he needed Snow.  
  
Without her, it’s taken almost too much out of him; and then Emma says, “I’m looking at a newspaper article right now about the local ornithology society, which sounds like the lamest thing on earth, but it’s being headed up by someone named Mary Margaret Blanchard who also teaches at the elementary school and--the article says that it’s worth going on a scouting trip with her because the birds just seem to flock to her.”  
  
His vision blurs so quickly that he actually has to pull over for a few seconds, squeezing his lips together to not make any particular sounds that might sound panicked, and then he just says, “Yes.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yes, Emma.  That--that sounds like her.”  
  
“Okay.  I’m at the diner, it’s on Main Street; you can’t miss it, so--”  
  
“Okay,” he echoes, and then hangs up and presses his forehead against the steering wheel for a few long moments.  
  
Twenty eight years seems like too much time and not nearly enough time to prepare him for this moment at all.  
  
…  
  
Some small part of her still wants to think that this is all going to turn out to be nothing, but the rest of her has capsized completely, and is currently mid-panic-attack at the idea that she’s about to meet her _mother_ for the first time.  
  
Her jeans have seen better days and are starting to run threadbare on both her thighs and her ass; there’s a day-old ketchup stain on her sweater, because she wasn’t expecting it to be as cold as it has been and--God, she’s just a _mess_.  A formerly teen-pregnant mess, who doesn’t really have much of anything to show for twenty eight years of life except that _one_ good decision, to do right by that baby she really hadn’t been ready to raise.  
  
By the time her dad pulls up on the curb, she’s shaking pretty obviously, and after just one look at her he’s out of the car in a flash, pulling her in close and promising her that her mother has _always_ loved her, wanted her, and this is somehow going to be all right.    
  
“Yeah, I guess I’m prepared for anything.  I mean, you _did_ teach me how to use a sword at a ridiculously young age,” she says, with as much bravado as she can manage; it isn’t much, but it’s enough to make him laugh a little and say, “ _Please_ don’t tell your mother; she’ll never let me live it down.”  
  
…  
  
“Should we maybe wait for recess?” Emma asks, when they’re outside of the building and staring at the front door.  “I mean--won’t she freak out if you’re just _there_ , all of a sudden?  After all this time?”  
  
The small part of him that will always be patient, will always wait for his turn, wants to say that that sounds like the right thing to do; but the rest of him has waited long enough, and he shakes his head after a few seconds.  
  
“No.  Twenty bucks says that all she’ll say is _you found me_.”  
  
“You can’t possibly know that.”  
  
He smiles.  “Try me.”  
  
“Oh, you’re _so_ on,” Emma says, shaking her head a little; if she was fifteen years younger, she would’ve chased it with a _whatever, Dad_.  
  
Snow would probably frown at this little exchange, but when Emma relaxes her stance just a little, for once he’s absolutely sure he’s done right by her.  
  
“Ready?” he asks.  
  
“Not really, but--”  
  
And then, their chance to stage a big entrance is gone, because the bell rings and hordes of children come filing out, only to be eventually followed by--  
  
“Dad,” Emma says, after a few seconds, right around the time Mary Margaret Blanchard--elementary school teacher, ornithologist, fugitive, wife, mother, princess, queen, _everything_ \--looks over at him with the slightest of head-tilts, like a memory scratching at a door that doesn’t really know how to open.  
  
He wipes at his eyes, and then feels himself smile in a way that he hasn’t been able to, not for nearly thirty years, even as he looks at the slightly painful-looking longing that washes over Emma’s face.  
  
“Come on.  It’s time for you to meet your mother.”


End file.
